


an untold story inside you

by gentyjack



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (rated m for future chapter), (will add more tags to later chapters), Angst, Confessions, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 15:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21459958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentyjack/pseuds/gentyjack
Summary: There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.--Maya Angelouaka the five times Aziraphale almost admitted that he loved Crowleyand the one time he did
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	an untold story inside you

**Author's Note:**

> me, in my last fic: maybe I'll write something happy next time! :)   
me, in this fic: DING DONG YOU ARE WRONG :)))

The idea of succession always seemed pointless to Aziraphale. Bloodlines, takeovers, invasions,  _ divine will _ ; all of them rather silly. Especially the latter, it wasn’t as if She had any hand in this whatsoever. 

Still the humans fought over which person (usually male) would get to sit on a fancier chair than all the others and tell other people what to do who would, in turn, tell other people what to do. Thus was the vicious cycle of feudalism. And it didn’t help matters that the humans appeared to have royally (if you would pardon the pun) mucked this one up. 

“So run that by me again?” Aziraphale sighed exasperated, eyeing his confused companion to his left. He had explained it no less than three times in the past hour, and frankly he was quite tired of it. The angel began to rub at his face, thoroughly annoyed, while the man beside him attempted to defend his case. “What? You can’t blame me for not grasping this human nonsense!” 

“Alright, but this is going to be the  _ last  _ time, Crowley,” Aziraphale chided. “And you’re getting the shortened version this go-around.” The demon gave him a pointed look as if to say: ‘why didn’t I get that version the last three times,’ which Aziraphale chose to ignore. “First, there was Edward–” 

“Ah yes, that “confessor” bloke,” Crowley interrupted. “Not really sure that he did much of anything to deserve a title like  _ confessor’ _ r anything. I mean godly man he was, but good king? Hardly.” 

“Yes, and you wonder why you haven’t been grasping the situation, as you continue to interrupt me.” That shut Crowley up from his monologuing, though not without a few raised eyebrows and a scoff. “Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, Edward. Well the old king died and supposedly pointed to a fellow named Harold Godwinson as his successor before he succumbed.” (“A shoddy way of passing that on, don’t you think?” “Hush.”). “Now because Harold had pledged an oath to William in Normandy, the Normans were able to use the pope to gather support to invade the country.” 

“Right,” Crowley nodded, as if he had any idea what Aziraphale was talking about. 

“Now in Norway there was another army wanting to take the throne led by Harald Hardrada of Norway. He had allied himself with Harold’s brother, Tostig—” 

“Wait, he allied himself with his own brother?” 

“No he allied himself with Harold’s brother. This is Harald, big difference.” 

“Yeah, big difference of one letter.” 

“ _ Anyway _ ,” Aziraphale said with emphasis, putting an end to their back and forth. “So Saxon forces had to go up north to defeat the Nords.” (“Not the Normans?” “Not yet.”) “They managed to succeed and put an end to Harald’s invasion.” (“Godwinson?” “ _ Hardrada _ .” “I hate everything about this, angel.”) “Which brings us here, in Crowhurst, watching the Saxons battle against William and the Normans.” (“See, I like that William guy, he at least has the decency to pick out a different name.” “Crowley, for goodness’ sake.”)

Aziraphale gave Crowley a few seconds of silence, to let that mess of a story truly sink in. And it certainly looked like he needed them, as the demon’s face continued to scrunch up in thought and confusion before finally relaxing into its normal laid back position. Really, it wasn’t that difficult to understand, what was he playing at? 

“So,” Crowley started, a mischievous smile beginning to grace his lips. “Which one are you rooting for?” Aziraphale gaped at him, utterly incredulous that Crowley would ask such a thing. “I mean, the English have the track record, with their defeat with the other Harold.” (“ _ Harald _ .” “Whatever.”) “But the Normans have archers, you can’t go wrong with a good archer.” 

“I cannot believe that you are asking me to...to bet on the tidings of battle! These are people’s  _ lives _ , Crowley! I cannot simply put money on that.” The absolute nerve of the idea. Many men were going to die horrifically on this battlefield today, and to put their lives in the hands of a silver coin? Absolutely despicable. 

“Right, well, I’m gonna put a groat on the Normans. They seem fresh enough to really pull this around.” Sometimes Aziraphale needed a reminder that Crowley was, in fact, despicable. “So I guess that puts you on Saxons then?” Crowley asked, holding out a hand for their “pot.” 

“It does no such thing,” Aziraphale said pointedly. Though many seconds of the demon waiting, hand not moving an inch and gaze unfleeting, even the angel had to acquiesce. He put the groat into Crowley’s outstretched hand, which only made that playful smile bigger. An absolute fiend this man was! “This means absolutely nothing.” 

“Sure it doesn’t, angel,” Crowley said with a smirk, attempting to pocket one of their eventual winnings into a side pouch for safe-keeping. 

“Oh no you don’t, you give those to me,” Aziraphale chided. “Heaven knows what you would do with them.” 

  
  


After hours of fighting, Crowley began to growl in frustration. It would appear he put money on a losing side: the Saxons had the high ground which was a huge advantage, as well as a shield wall that managed to hold off all of the Norman arrows. Not to mention the fact that the lack of Saxon archers actually turned out to benefit their side, as the Norman arrows were lost on their side and they had no “returning arrows” to use in their place. “Remind me never to waste a good groat on this bollocks,” he complained. 

“It was your own wicked folly that worked against you,” Aziraphale sermoned, though not without a smirk on his face. If asked about why it was there, he would probably say something along the lines of “thwarting the evil one,” but as far as Crowley was concerned the angel was simply chuffed he was winning. 

“This is ridiculous, I mean look at them all! It even looks like they’re running away,” Crowley was practically whining at this point, as the Norman forces seemed to retreat from the battlefield. “That’s it, I’m taking matters into my own hands.” And with that, the demon started sauntering off towards where the action was happening. Aziraphale sputtered at Crowley’s sudden decision. 

“W-wait, you can’t just…! Crowley! You can’t meddle in human affairs like this!” Crowley scoffed; of course they could meddle in human affairs, they both did it all the time. Aziraphale was probably just put off by the idea of Crowley cheating, which shouldn’t have been a surprise to him. He  _ was  _ a demon after all. “ _ Honestly. _ ” Aziraphale muttered before following after him. 

The Saxons’ shield wall held firm on the top of the hill, cleaving down any soldier who dared cross its path with sharp battle axes. The Normans were banking on their mobility alone, as it seemed nothing could pierce through the impenetrable forcefield, which was slowly being taken away as the fresh blood of their fallen brethren began to coat the hill like a thick dye. Bodies beget more bodies, and more bodies still as the battle raged on. 

The Normans began to flee in large numbers, almost in a panic, as their situation looked more and more dire. Crowley could barely make out their cries of fear through the bustle and noise of bloodshed, but with what little Norman French he knew he could make out: “The duke is dead!” Ah, so William had been slain. This was certainly a losing battle. 

Crowley stopped in his tracks in the middle, losing the will to chase after the soon to be defeated team. After all, what was he going to do? Give them a pep talk? A rousing speech? Both were not really his style. 

The sound of labored breathing behind him took him out of his thoughts. There stood the angel, bending at the waist and holding firm onto his knees to get his heart to stop racing. “ _ Honestly, _ ” Aziraphale wheezed. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” 

“You didn’t have to follow me,” Crowley almost sneered, though there was really no bite to it. No point in being a sore loser, he supposed the angel  _ did  _ win fair and square. Said angel was meanwhile still trying to catch his breath. 

“Ohhh, of course I did, there was no telling what you would do with these people,” Aziraphale accused. “Besides, they’re starting to break the line to charge after them, and heaven knows we don’t want to be caught in the middle of that scrap.” Wait, what did the angel say? Break the line? Crowley peered behind him at the Saxon army and sure enough, soldiers began to dismantle the shield wall they had been holding for hours in favor of obliterating more of their foes. 

Hold on. 

Crowley turned his gaze back to the Norman army, suddenly no longer retreating. A man on a horse advanced to the front of the line, clad in scale armor that covered his entire torso. Though he carried an oblong shield and his facial features were partially covered by a helmet, the identity of the figure was quite clear. The duke these soldiers were previously mourning the sudden loss of: William of Normandy. Never dead, simply hiding. Even Crowley couldn’t contain his surprise. 

“Clever bastards,” he said, just before the Norman forces began to charge back at the now defenseless Saxons. That was their plan all along, to feign retreat in order to break the line  _ ohhh humans were so cunning _ . Though this did leave the predicament he and the angel were now currently in...and this was the fact that they were in the middle of two storming armies. 

“Oh dear….” Aziraphale said in a panic. “My dear boy, I suggest we run.” 

“You don’t need to tell me twice.” 

The two took off at a sprint towards the side they had been casually watching only minutes before, Aziraphale only slightly ahead due to his advantaged position. The arrows now flew thicker than rain, no longer being stopped by the thick shields and hitting Saxon foes left and right. More and more men fell, arrows sticking out of necks and eyes, blood spurting from open wounds that left soldiers screaming and crying on the ground as they lay dying. 

Aziraphale couldn’t look back, he couldn’t look at this scene of absolute carnage, and focused instead on looking ahead towards his destination. He supposed he should look back to see if Crowley was following him, but he refrained. The demon was never too far behind. 

The noises of the mens’ wails of agony started to die down as they finally approached the safety of the sidelines. Aziraphale again moved to clutch at his kneecaps, gasping for air. He may have been the Guardian of the Eastern Gate...but that was a long time ago. Each breath stung, like he had just swallowed a thousand little nails that all seemed eager to scratch at the lining of his throat. “Oh…goodness me...you see...what kind of mess...you could’ve gotten us into…?” He questioned the demon. 

No response. 

“What...no clever quip?” 

Again. No response. 

Aziraphale let out the second exasperated sigh of the day, before standing once more to his full height. He heard breathing behind him, so he knew that he hadn’t lost Crowley in the fray, and now turned around to talk to him directly. “Really now, Crowley, do you have any idea—” Any other word that was going to leave his mouth at that moment eluded him as he took a look at his adversary. 

Crowley was staring at the angel in complete shock. Somewhere in the middle of their flight, the demon’s tinted lenses had somehow fallen off his face, so Aziraphale could see his eyes fully. They were completely yellow, not a hint of white, conveying the stress and absolute fear he was feeling. His breathing was ragged, slow and labored, as if every intake of air took so much effort. But why? The two of them made it. There was no need for—

Ah. Now he understood. 

Blue eyes traveled down Crowley’s body to his lower abdomen, where a single arrow protruded from the side of his midsection. Blood started to pool on his black tunic around the punctured area. What was previously held in from the mixture of the arrowhead and the amount of adrenaline Crowley had fleeing the battle sight could no longer be contained. The archer hit his mark, an artery or an intestine. 

“A-angel?” Crowley managed to get out, eyes still wide and glowing with terror. It wasn’t long before his legs began to buckle beneath him, and he fell to the ground in an almost slithering fashion. Aziraphale, without thinking, rushed over to brace him before he could fall on the shaft and aggravate the wound even more. While shifting Crowley onto his back, easing him gently on his own lap, the demon began to grip at the angel’s white tunic as it gradually was being dyed red. 

Aziraphale looked on in what he believed at the time was pity, though that emotion didn’t usually bring tears to his eyes like this. The demon was normally very pale, but now he was sickeningly so, as if the color in his face was being drained out of his body and onto the grass, onto  _ him _ . “I...I can’t miracle this, Crowley, I...I am so sorry.” Crowley merely continued to clutch at him desperately, and if Aziraphale didn’t know any better it would look as if he were begging for mercy. 

This was temporary, Aziraphale tried to remind himself. Crowley wasn’t  _ actually _ dying, he was just being discorporated. There was a big difference. He would come back eventually, once everything was sorted and paperwork was filed. Though the thought didn’t lessen how devastating it was to see him like this, so afraid. This must be his first time, the angel pondered. No one who has been discorporated before would feel panic like this. 

Aziraphale put a steadying hand on Crowley’s shaking and tight grip, trying to ease him, trying to soothe him. “It will be over soon...relax…” Crowley’s breath sped up, Aziraphale hushed him. “Relax.” Water droplets hit Crowley’s forehead and cheekbones. Was it raining? “Relax.” 

Crowley’s grip began to relax finally, though if it was due to Aziraphale’s words or how close he was to the end it wasn’t clear. His eyes began to glaze over, breath slowing, grip relaxing. 

“Relax.” 

Grip relaxing. 

“...r-relax…” 

…

Grip limp. 

Drop, drop, drop. More droplets hit the demon’s pale face, trailing down towards the grass, towards bright red hair that contrasted so much from the lifelessness of the rest of him. As Aziraphale lowered Crowley’s now slack hand onto the grass beneath him, he began to rub at his face. 

Ah. So it wasn’t raining. 

He pressed firmly onto his damp face, trying to will the water off of it. Why was he crying? There was no point in crying. He would be back, and even if he wasn’t he certainly shouldn’t be shedding tears over a demon of all things. But they continued to pour out of him, now mixed with the red, oh so red, dampness Aziraphale had on his fingers from moving Crowley. He was covered in it, he couldn’t tell where he ended and Crowley began; it was as if the redness had joined them. 

But why? Why why why? Angels do not mourn for demons, what does that make him? Yes, he was a being of love, and through that he loved all God’s creatures. But there was a line, there was  _ always  _ a line. He shouldn’t feel sadness, pity,  _ sorrow _ over one that She had cast out. They were not worthy of—.

Aziraphale stopped his racing thoughts before he found himself trapped in his head for days. It was a fluke. A one time thing. He enjoyed pleasant conversation with the demon, and he was lamenting the loss of good company. That was it. 

Nothing more. 

The angel rose, standing over the body of his slain adversary, and wiping his hands on the front of his tunic...as if that alone would take away the stains. A brief thought crossed his mind about burying the corporation, but it was quickly whisked away. He was in enough mental turmoil as it was. No, he would leave him. Another body to be buried with the hundreds dead meters away. 

Aziraphale turned once more towards the raging battle, through the chaos he had no idea of the outcome. He looked with an almost nonchalant gaze as the Normans cheered a victorious battle cry. On the other side, the Saxons began to retreat, leaving the body of their fallen leader behind (Harold, not Harald; Aziraphale corrected to no one). An arrow protruded from his eye, making him hardly recognizable if it weren’t for the adornments he wore. 

The Normans had prevailed. 

He reached into his side pouch, pinching two silver coins in a firm grip. Gently, almost hesitantly, Aziraphale lowered himself once more and opened the palm of Crowley’s hand. It was surprisingly easy, the body was not firm yet. 

He deposited the two coins into it, easing the demons fingers closed around them. Giving the hand two soft pats, Aziraphale managed to will himself away. 

“Looks like you won this one,” he muttered. 

God...he needed a drink. 

**Author's Note:**

> yooo first multichapter fic are you proud of me mom here are some notes 
> 
> -I alluded to Crowley's discorporation in my last fic "the fires in the room were already out," basically saying it was quick and he hardly noticed it. I'd say this account is probably about right lmao   
-The lead up to the Battle of Hastings was a MESS and I spared you a lot of the succession details so you're welcome   
-That being said, I did take some liberties with the actual battle itself. It was true that the Normans did feign retreat, however that was after they initially ACTUALLY retreated because they thought that William had died. Decided to cut the middle man and combine the two for The Drama sorry for historical inaccuracies   
-A groat is equal to about four pence. I'm not sure if they would've had that money yet in 1066, but sources on early medieval currency are SURPRISINGLY LIMITED   
-The title is taken from an actual eyewitness source to the battle which was also hard to find. A lot of this battle we get off a tapestry y'all. There's a lot of liberties.   
-Even though it's called the Battle of Hastings, it's now theorized that the battle took place in Crowhurst which is NEAR Hastings. So a little nod to that theory. 
> 
> thanks for checking in I'm ~*~*still a piece of garbage*~*~


End file.
